


A Warm Welcome

by MaggieLaFey



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Angel S5, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Light-Hearted, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Series, Reunion, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Smut, Snowed In, tenderness abounds, these two are just cuties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28485291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggieLaFey/pseuds/MaggieLaFey
Summary: Nineteen days after “Chosen”, Spike is spit out of the amulet in Angel’s office, and two months later he becomes corporeal. It takes him longer yet to find the courage to contact a certain slayer, who won’t be too happy about the wait. But will she forgive him and use this opportunity to finally start something new?
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 8
Kudos: 59





	A Warm Welcome

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to the fabulous Pixiecorn for the lovely banner. And special, special thanks go to the unparalleled bookishy, who is the bestest beta an author could ask for.
> 
> This fic is an Elysian Fields 2020 Secret Santa gift for SoddThis. (Go check all those awesome stories on EF's website!)  
> Disclaimer: Buffy and Spike Belong to Joss and ME. The love for cozy, extra tender stories is all mine.  
> For the purposes of this story, Spike is spit out of the amulet on the 8th of June 2003, and becomes corporeal on the 10th of August.

_27.09.2003_

~~_Dearest_ ~~

~~_Slayer_ ~~

_Dear Buffy,_

_Don’t even know what I’m gonna write here, do I? “I’m back” sounds like I’m some bloody fungus you’d been trying to get rid of. Would’ve been accurate a while back, but it’s not the same now, I know that._

_It’s not the same now._ _Fuck, that tracks. I… look, don’t even know whether you know about this. Maybe you do, ’cause, Christ, love, you’re powerful these days. More ’n usual, that is._

_But let’s say you don’t: Hello, pet. I’m Spike, and I’m back among the unliving. Amulet spit me out at Angel’s evil law firm. Was all ghostly, then I turned back into a real boy… around a month ago._

_Why’d it take me so long to reach out, you ask? ’Cause I’m a bloody coward. And why through a sodding letter? ʼCause I’m a bloody_ _ancient_ _coward._

_Don’t know what the point of this is, Buffy. It just… feels wrong to pretend you wouldn’t care to know at all, no matter what Peaches says. So here it is: I’m back. Trying to figure out whether your ex needs help or to be kicked right back to hell. (Guess which I’m hoping for.)_

_Hope you and the Bit are happy, Buffy. And the lot of your band, too. Heard about Demon Girl—tell Harris I’m sorry._

_I hope you know I wish you all the best. Always._

~~_Love_ ~~

_Yours,_

_Spike_

*

_10.03.2003_

_Dear Spike,_

_Yeah, you’re definitely an ancient fraidy-cat. It’s been ages since I last sent a handwritten letter. And look, my handwriting’s better than yours! Take that, Victorian London Boy._

_You’re right. I had heard about you being back. Your letter made me ask enough questions to make sure the stories were real, that_ _your letter_ _was real, and now I only marginally want to slap you for this cop-out. It’s stupidly_ _cowardly_ _and slow and old-fashioned, but… it’s good to have something physical. A girl realises the value of certain things, when she loses literally everything she has in an apocalypse._

_Dawn says you’re a poophead for not coming here. (She thinks she’s all growed-up and used another word, actually.) Willow says letters are sweet. Xander says thanks, and also you’re ridiculous. Giles has been aggressively frowning, but maybe that’s just my tea-making skills._

_(STOP GRIMACING. NOW.)_

_I’m just thankful. Angry, too, but I’m trying to be my better self here…_

_Still, I expect you to send me your phone number with the next letter, you jerk. I’m not even going to send you mine, since you’d probably be too scared to call anyway._

_I hope some demon kicks your ass for me._

_Buffy_

_PS: Yeah, maybe being my better self is going to take some work._

_*_

_10.10.2003_

_Dear Buffy,_

_Oi! I deserve a_ _little_ _bit of credit, seeing as I did contact you. And all right, it took me a while, and it was a letter, and I did admit to a smidge of cowardice… bugger. Can’t maintain a scrap of pride with you, Slayer._

 _But, before you go thinking you've won everything: feast your eyes on my Victorian handwriting, Summers. I hadn’t thought you'd want to see this crap, is all. But I can_ _definitely_ _write better than you, love. Bloody American education…_

 _Dawn is right, I have been a prickhead. Red, however, should know better than to think I’m_ _sweet_ _. Harris gets a pass on account of his loss. Rupes’s probably just fuming because your Californian cheer is ruining his English gloom, and because you’re in Scotland._

 _’S a matter of fact, I_ _did_ _get kicked in the arse. Bugger was huge and yellow and fuck if his innards didn’t smell foul. Still wrapped him in them, mind you._

_How’s slaying over there? Baby slayers giving you trouble, or have you trained them all to know better already?_

_Number’s below._ ~~_I miss_~~ _Feel free to call me any time, Buffy. I may not deserve it, but I’m sure as hell not gonna complain if you give me a chance at forgiveness._

_Yours,_

_Spike_

*░°*°’°•.○.•°’°*°░*

_17.10.2003_

The ringing woke him up and he groaned as he rolled over, hand fumbling at the bloody noisy bugger on his bedside table. 

“ _What_?” he growled.

“Spike?”

“… Buffy?”

“Yeah, you big coward.”

Spike gripped the mobile hard, doing his best to get his lungs working again.

“… ’Lo, pet.”

“Seriously? You come back to life, don’t tell me for months, then send me a _letter_ —and now all you can say is ‘’Lo, pet’?”

Spike grinned at her terrible accent. He rolled to his back on his bed, dragging a hand down his face. “Woke me up, was sleeping.” A pause. “And I’m feeling shitty enough that I reckon there’s no right thing to say. Except that I’m sorry.”

Spike was wide awake now; he stared up at the ceiling, her silence leaving him feeling hollow.

“Oh,” Buffy said eventually. “Uhm. Sorry.”

“What for? I’m the wanker, here.”

“Yeah, ok. But I didn’t mean to wake you, really, I just…” She sighed. “I’ve just read your letter and couldn’t wait. And, well… I guess you can be forgiven for the Cowardly Lion stunt. _If_ ,” she rushed to add, “you agree to tell me everything.”

He took a deep breath, still staring at the ceiling as something in his chest started to unwind. It was still scary as shit, telling her the reasons behind his absence, owning up to everything that had been going on, but… ultimately, this was Buffy asking him to talk to her, to be honest and real. However hard it would be—and he was sure it _would_ be hard—it was worth the possibility of building something new, something beautiful; no question about it.

“Of course, pet.”

Maybe it wasn’t all lost.

*

_24.10.2003_

Buffy blinked at the envelope Dawn was waving in her face.

“What? That can’t be…”

“It is,” her little sister said with a smirk. “I guess he’s still trying to woo you with his ‘superior handwriting’, even though you talk every other day now.”

Frowning, Buffy snatched it away. “Yeah, wooing me from the other side of the ocean,” she muttered.

“Come on, Buffy, that’s obviously what he’s doing.”

 _What he's_ doing _is giving me headaches while I try to figure out how I feel about him._ She tore open the envelope, pretending her heart didn’t beat harder at the sight of the flowing script. If anything, it was even fancier than in his last letter.

_Dear Buffy,_

_You didn’t think I’d stop sending you these just because we talked on the phone, right? Gotta drive home that point about me having better handwriting._

_Also wanted to show you a visual representation of me getting my ass kicked. Wager it might lift your spirits some, make you feel more forgiving towards my poor self._

Buffy burst out giggling at the included drawing, where a dashing Prince Charming look-alike was getting kicked by three burly black monsters that seemed to be a mix between salivating toads and savage bears.

_Hope that earned a smirk of satisfaction, love. But since I’m not_ _that _ _selfless, I’ve indulged in the visual representation of another, much better ass-kicking too._

She laughed when she saw Angel with his sticky-up hair (the drawing called it that: _Peaches and his bloody sticky-up hair_ ) being kicked by monsters, while the Prince Charming wannabe cheered from the sidelines.

_Don’t get your knickers in a twist, now, your love dove is all right. A good ass-kicking boosts his spirits. Gives him more reason to brood, and that’s just what he needs to be his brand of (un)happy. Still gotta figure out if he’s still one of the good guys or if he needs to be sent back to hell along with all the other Wolfram & Hart wankers, but you know I’ll do everything I can to make sure he gets exactly what’s coming to him. _

_Thank the Niblet for the talk on the phone. Didn’t think she’d ever… never thought we’d talk again, not like that. Just tell her thanks, will you?_

_But most of all, I wanna thank you, Buffy. Don’t know if we’ll have talked again by the time you get this, but maybe I’m still too much of a Cowardly Lion to tell you by phone, if we have, so:_

_Thank you._

_Yours,_

_Spike_

Buffy’s eyes weren’t getting watery. They weren’t. So really, there was no reason for Dawn to look at her with that mix of compassion and impatience. She rubbed at her eye—only because she hadn’t slept much and was tired—and tried to get back to her dinner.

“Buffy.”

“Dawn.”

“Buffy, you really should just tell him to come visit.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“God, you’re _such_ a—”

“Dawnie, why don’t you go study for that exam of yours?” she asked, trying for a sugary tone—that usually worked when it came to making Dawn furious enough to leave her alone.

She succeeded. Her sister’s eyes flared before she stomped out of the castle’s cavernous dining room, her long hair swishing. Buffy felt only moderately guilty.

Dawn didn’t understand. She didn’t know all that had happened between Buffy and Spike; how much it had hurt to hear his rejection and realise that it wasn’t _completely_ without basis since it _had_ felt too soon to say the words; how she’d wanted to kick herself for having kissed Angel just when they'd reached a new level of intimacy; how betrayed she'd felt at hearing that he was back and hadn’t told her.

And now, Dawn had no idea how much these letters warmed her heart, how much his voice grounded her. Dawn didn’t know how Buffy struggled to decide who she was more mad at: him for staying away or herself for having driven him away. _Yeah, she doesn’t know any of that. Because you don’t tell her anything._

“Yet another thing to add to the Buffy guilt pile,” she muttered, burying meatloaf pieces in her mashed potatoes. 

Then her eyes moved back to the letter, and the corner of her mouth lifted.

Maybe everything was a mess, but Spike’s voice, his words, his gratitude… those weren’t too bad.

*

He picked up the phone immediately when he saw the caller ID. “Hey, pet.”

“I received your letter, you know.”

“Ah. Was wondering how long that’d take.” He paused, trying and failing to find the courage to thank her again. “Enjoyed the artwork of my misery, then?” _Christ, what a tosser._

“Yes, actually,” she said, and he grinned when he heard laughter in her voice. “Are you trying to make nagging Angel a national sport?”

“Aiming for intercontinental, actually,” he said. He fell down on his couch, kicking his feet up so he could imagine her eyes in the cracks of the old paint. “Think you’re ever gonna join?”

“God, you’re a baby.” 

But he could hear her still smiling, and his chest felt full. “A handsome one, though.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

She laughed outright at that, making Spike’s insides feel like jelly and his chest tingle. But then the cheer faded. 

“Look,” she said, “I’m not gonna lie. It hurts that you stayed away, and that none of you told me about this for months.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, yeah,” she continued, voice tighter now. “You were a ghost. But Spike, you and I both know you don’t stop when you want something. You’re telling me that you couldn’t have nagged someone into calling me?”

Spike let out a long, shaky breath, his chest going back to its pre-Buffy-letter hollowness. “You’re right,” he managed to murmur. “I’m sorry.”

She was silent for a while then, her breath coming steadily through the line. Spike didn’t know what he wanted to do—hop on a plane, go back in time, kneel at her feet—but God, if he could only have a second chance… 

“All right.” He could just picture her straightening her shoulders. “I think we’ve fully established you’re the Cowardly Lion.”

His insides roiled unpleasantly. Their first phone conversation had been almost exclusively about just how stupid ‘not wanting you to see me as less than a hero’ was as a reason not to call her. But then they’d skirted around the whole thing, talking about their respective day-to-day lives and slaying adventures. It had left Spike feeling half-relieved, half-terrorised of the prospect that she’d decide he wasn’t worth _really_ forgiving after all.

“Yeah,” he managed.

“But I also think we both know you can do better than that. So you’ll just have to agree to do that, from now on. Ok?”

Spike blinked, his eyes prickling. Was Buffy giving him another chance after all? Probably just as a friend, sure, but… even a chance at friendship was bloody heaven.

“Ok,” he rasped.

“Ok,” she repeated. Was she nodding while she did that? Were her sweet, deadly fingers playing with something? Her shirt, a bed sheet, a throw pillow? He didn’t even know if she had a sofa, he realised. She’d told him about the castle, but he didn’t know specifics.

He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you tell me some more about that castle of yours?”

“It’s not technically mine, you know,” she said.

Spike could hear rustling in the background, and he felt some of his tension drain away when he imagined her settling down wherever she was.

“’Course it is, love, you’re the mistress of the place.”

Buffy made a sound very close to a giggle. “Stop calling me that.”

_Like hell I will._

“Actually, you know what?” she continued, her voice lowering. “The girls here… they keep calling me ma’am.”

Spike barely bit back a groan, shifting on the coach as his jeans felt a bit tighter. “Sounds about right. Told you you’re the mistress.”

“You’re terrible.”

“And you know it.”

Buffy laughed again, the sound sending a thrill down Spike’s spine as he closed his eyes, relishing the mental image of her smile.

“Come on, pet,” he insisted. “Tell me what your manor looks like.”

He could swear he heard her shaking her head, but she complied. She told him about the big courtyard, and when she mentioned that it was mostly shaded, he wondered whether she ever imagined sparring with him there. She told him about the entertainment room, and when she said Xander complained that he wouldn’t mind more testosterone-inclined people to play with, he asked himself if she wanted _Spike_ to fill that gap. (And exactly what was wrong with Harris, for deciding _that_ was the way to say he wanted male friends?) And when they started talking about the things he was doing here in LA, he wondered what she’d think of him if he ditched Angel and went to visit her instead.

He didn’t say any of it out loud, though, too nervous about ruining this new start. He'd find the strength to ask her, one day. That, or he’d just wait until he could use Christmas as an excuse to visit. And then, if she showed no interest in pursuing anything romantic…

 _Well_ , he thought as he listened to her ramble about how cold Scotland was. _It’d still be damn worth it to be her friend._

  
*

_18.12.2003_

Buffy was on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

Her driving skills had improved since they’d come to Scotland, but this was a _very_ bad snowstorm, and she couldn’t see anything on this _very_ tiny road that was leading her to what were probably some very not-tiny demons to fight with mysterious backup.

But that wasn’t the actual reason, not really. This was just the icing on the cake, or the blood-red cherry, or whatever went on top of metaphorical cakes, because Buffy’s almost-breakdown was definitely, one hundred percent Spike’s fault.

She hadn’t slept in over a week, and it was all because of him. After two months of calls, her brain had suddenly decided to take his stupidly sexy voice as an inspiration for some truly horrible dreams. Ok, they weren’t horrible, more like _frustrating_ , considering that it had been… far too long, and wasn’t gonna happen again soon, anyway. 

Then, whatever demon was in charge of her dream cinema had decided to turn her nights into romcom central, only a depressing version, where Buffy unfailingly ended up brokenhearted and eating cheese-flavoured ice cream to cheer herself up. Because the idea of Spike crossing that damn ocean and asking her out and the two of them starting to date? Not even her brain could make that happen.

Which brought her to another reason her stress was all his fault: Dawn had been sending her little jibes about the two of them for over a month now. As if it made perfect sense to just chuck all their _history_ and just be friends. And really, what was she supposed to do, hop on a plane and surprise him in his stupid LA apartment and tell him she was in love with him?

“Exactly that,” Dawn had said the last time they’d had this conversation. Which had just made Buffy a steaming pot of anger; she’d had to count to twenty before she was able to talk without slapping her little sister into tomorrow.

Because by her count, _she_ ’d been the last one to make a love declaration, while _he_ ’d been the one to completely reject her.

Buffy resolutely ignored the little voice in her head insisting she’d only said those words because of the imminent death thing. A dumb apocalypse forcing her hand didn’t make it ok for him to stay all the way over there penning stupidly well-written, hilarious, charming, adorable letters. That asshole.

As she squinted through the wall of white in front of her, she tried not to think of how she'd fallen for him with every word and call. She kept surprising herself with the thought, but the more time passed, the more the words didn’t feel forced anymore. Sometimes, she’d even found herself whispering them to herself; “I love Spike. I love him,” she’d said when she reread a particularly funny bit of letter or when they’d just ended a phone call. It still felt a bit strange, but not unnatural anymore, or like it was too soon. 

And the worst part was that he had to know, because the jerk always knew. So why the hell stay away? Did he want her to do the chasing? Well, he’d have to wait for a long-ass time, because she wouldn’t—

A muffled scream interrupted her musings. Right. She was here as a slayer; she’d kill these stupid-ass demons, hang in the cabin Dawn had given her the keys to for the night, and then drive back to the castle to not-sleep another day.

_Go me._

She heard another scream and decided to abandon the car in the side road that led to the cabin. Then she grabbed the Scythe from the passenger seat, stuffed the keys in her pocket, and rushed out.

It took her a second to keep her balance against the wind and blinding snow. But when another scream sounded, she started walking.

It was slow moving through the snow, but soon enough she got there, in time to see a figure being thrown by two enormous demons. They were exactly as Dawn had described, so she forced herself forwards until she could heave herself up and slice the head of one right off. The other was more of a challenge but she managed, panting heavily as the snow wet her pants and the freezing air sent little stabs up her nose.

When she looked at the figure on the ground, another kind of stab went through her heart.

“’Lo, Slayer. Care to give a bloke a hand up?”

She blinked at Spike, trying to make sense of the sight. He was grinning a bit, and looking very blue in the cold—except for the red staining his face and hands, as well as the snow around him.

When that clicked, she fell down beside him in the snow. “What…”

“Nasty buggers were too many,” he said, voice tight enough to worry her.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

His grin got tighter. “Dawn invited me over, said you’d need help. Thought you knew.”

“Nope,” she said. 

They stared at each other for a long, rigid second. Then Buffy shook her head and put his arm around her shoulders. 

“Come on,” she murmured, “the cabin should be close by.”

Spike only grunted as he got up, leaning heavily on her. His solid weight against her made her heart thud hard, and Buffy licked her cracked lips as they trudged in what she hoped was the right direction, pausing only once to grab the bag he’d dropped to the side.

Thankfully, a little wooden house soon appeared; when she opened the door and fumbled for the light, she was relieved to see that it was a cute place, fully-furnished with everything they might need, including food on the kitchen counter and wood piled next to the empty hearth.

Then she noticed the _one_ very big bed, and her heart beat faster. 

“Here,” she managed, leading him to the comfy-looking armchair in front of the fireplace, helping him sit. “Let me look for a first aid kit.” She found it in the bathroom and rushed back, trying to ignore his intense blue gaze. “Where are you hurt?”

Spike just looked at her for a second, then shook his head. “Mangled hands, bruised ribs, stab to my side, and I think a ripped calf.”

Every word was another icy stab in Buffy’s chest. She nodded, reminding herself he’d be all right.

“Do you want help getting your clothes off?”

She could _see_ the innuendos in his eyes. But then he looked down, shy all of a sudden. “Maybe, yeah.”

Buffy hoped he couldn’t hear her heart racing with the racket of the storm outside.

She nodded, ignoring the gigantic elephant in the room and helping him out of the coat with as much detachment as possible. Which wasn’t a lot, she admitted while slowly rolling his shirt up and over his head.

She licked her stinging lips. Which wasn’t great, but it helped her not lick other things. Then she stopped ogling to frown, because his wound wasn’t even bleeding a little.

“Cold makes a vamp’s body act even more dead’n usual, love,” Spike said, trying for casual, and managing it just about as well as she was.

She nodded, kneeling in front of him. She felt herself flush when, after a beat, he opened his legs to let her get closer, and ok, he was obviously wondering why the hell she hadn’t just sat on one of the chair’s arms. Maybe she was more of a masochist than either of them suspected.

She swallowed, trying to keep her hands non-trembly as she dabbed at the little blood around the injury. She did a half-decent job, but she couldn’t stop from grazing his skin as she worked; one fingertip here, one knuckle there… God, he was so cold, and yet she felt on fire.

“Thank you, pet,” he whispered as she finished. She barely managed not to jolt at the sound of his voice: deep, and low, and just this side of throaty.

“You’re welcome.” And then their gazes met, and she was stuck, because there was a reason she’d been avoiding his eyes. Lots of reasons. She swallowed once more. “Let me bind your chest.”

For a moment, she imagined him saying no, piling on one more rejection. But then he nodded, slowly, and something in her chest unraveled. He was letting her take care of him. 

Nodding back quickly, she gathered more bandages.

She was so _close_. She could feel his cold breath on her temple, their heads almost touching every time she had to bring the bandage around him. Her arms were almost holding him now, and God, her hands were _not_ supposed to do the trembly thing, her fingers were _not_ supposed to cop a feel, her heart was _not_ supposed to pound so hard even human ears could hear it…

She pulled her hands back when she realised she was caressing him rather than fixing the bandage. An apology was almost out of her lips when she looked up to find his face was very, very far from unhappy.

“Thank you, Buffy.”

She nodded weakly, suddenly terrified. What if he kissed her? What if she kissed him? What if he didn't want her anymore? 

God, why couldn’t she just go for it? Why couldn’t things be easy, for once?

Then her hand was in his freezing-cold one. “I’m sorry you didn’t expect me, Buffy. I thought Dawn had told you. Having to save a vamp in distress is probably less than ideal as reunions go.” He looked down at his lap. “Would offer to get out of your hair, but…”

“No,” she blurted. He blinked at her, and she forced herself to smile, because she was a grown-ass adult and she could _do this_. She could tell him how she felt. “I… I’m glad we’re on the same side of the ocean again.” _Wow. That’s great. Awesome._

But Spike had always been more forgiving of her than she was herself; he smiled as if she’d just given him the moon and squeezed her hand. “I’m glad too, pet. And I’m sorry if I should’ve come sooner.”

There, now she couldn’t even blame him for that anymore.

She smiled more genuinely, then nodded at his leg. “Let me take a look at that too.”

“Ah, no need—”

“Come on,” she insisted, sitting on her haunches to study his tight wet jeans, which would _not_ roll up easily.

“Pet…”

She suddenly realised that they would have to come off. And knowing Spike's underwear habits…

She swallowed. 

“Let me get you something,” she squeaked, then went to rummage in the big closet next to the bathroom. She brought him the softest blanket she could find and, ignoring her burning cheeks, kneeled down in front of him again. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

She didn’t have the strength to meet his eyes again, but after a couple of beats he put the blanket on his lap and started to shift beneath it. And God, the not-seeing was making Buffy’s nipples harden under her thousand layers, and a tingle start between her thighs.

Spike grunted, clearly having some trouble. She pushed back the urge to act without asking, and finally looked up. 

“May I help?”

Spike blinked down at her, surprised. Then he looked bashful again, his gaze moving to the side. “Yeah. Thanks, Slayer.”

She nodded and put her hands beneath the blanket, gripping the fabric of his jeans on both sides. And then she started to tug.

He grunted, probably from the discomfort of them sliding off, but apparently it was all the same to her nether regions. His cold skin brushing the back of her fingers sent goosebumpy tingles straight up to her nipples.

She swallowed when the jeans reached his boots, which they’d apparently both forgotten about.

“Buffy, you don’t need—”

“It’s fine,” she said, more gently than she would’ve thought possible. She smiled at him. “I’m glad I can help.”

God, it was true. The awe in his eyes made it all the sweeter.

As Buffy unlaced his boots, one at a time, then took them off, she kept her eyes on her way-too-trembly hands, but she could feel his on her, especially as she pulled his jeans off the rest of the way 

When it was time to reach for the antiseptic and gauze, she had to fight hard to stop staring at his legs. When had men’s legs become sexy?

 _Maybe when I started kneeling between them with the excuse of ‘cleaning their wounds’_. 

She ignored the snarky voice, trying not to tremble too much while she cleaned his skin. She could totally touch him with her left hand too, right? She needed to, to get rid of the blood and dirt and to tape the wound closed…

She swallowed, trying to get her mind out of the gutter. The pulsing between her legs continued anyway.

“I’ll be all right, pet.”

She managed to look up then—his gaze was soft, and deep.

“Just a few scrapes, no need to look so worried.”

_Yeah, I’m worried about your ripped calf, not about what would happen if I jumped you and you didn't want me. Yep._

“It looks painful,” she said. Because she was the lamest lame lame-o on the planet when she was in love.

It wasn’t the first time the thought hit her, but it suddenly felt _real_. She really was in love with Spike. And as she tried not to hyperventilate at the idea, his eyes crinkling at the corners made for another devastating blow all on their own.

“Had worse,” he said, sounding casual.

She just shook her head and went back to trying to tape the wound closed, because she was just that lame. 

God, it was real. If his imminent death had forced her hand on the Hellmouth, there had been no forcing since; she’d just fallen for him, completely, thanks to his words and his voice and his arms that she still missed. Arms that were right now in front of her.

 _What do I do?_ she thought frantically. _Do I tell him? Declare myself and risk being rejected, again—this time when I a hundred percent mean it?_

She took a deep breath, ignoring her internal rambling, and concentrated on taping the wound shut. The cabin’s kit only had butterfly stitches, so she tried to make do.

“I hope these are going to be enough,” she said, trying to concentrate.

“I’ll be all right, love.”

“You better,” she said, managing a stern tone despite her fluttering heart. “After all the time you’ve made me wait, you’re not allowed to go anywhere for a while.” She looked up then, ready to add, “If that’s what you want”, but Spike was gazing down at her with that familiar awe. Butterflies suddenly raged in her stomach.

“I guess I’m gonna stick around, then.” 

His voice was low, and sweet, and dammit, he could at least kiss her and make the first move, right? But he broke their gaze, looking at the window and frowning. 

“Not that we’re gonna have much of a choice. Seems like it’s gonna keep going for a while. Surprised you could even drive here, pet.”

She frowned at the window too, the sounds of the storm registering again, before looking back down and finishing up the medication. Medication on Spike’s naked skin, on his slightly spread legs…

“Uh—yeah—it wasn’t pretty. Hopefully tomorrow morning it’ll be ok enough to go back.”

Spike looked back at her, worried. “We’ll see.”

Buffy shuddered then, thinking about the night ahead, and the big single bed in the cabin, and…

“Pet, you’re shivering. I’m sorry, I didn’t think—shoulda started a fire before all this.”

She smiled up at him as she realised that yes, the cabin was very cold, even in her heavy coat. “Don’t worry about it. I’m a big girl, I can resist for a few minutes.”

“Define ‘big’…”

She snorted and slapped him on his non-woundy leg. His very healthy, very smooth-if-a-bit-hairy leg, just inches from her…

 _God, I have issues_ , she berated herself as she felt heat rise to her cheeks and started gathering all the dirty gauze.

“Not getting any closer to death here, ’specially with the cold,” he insisted. “Don’t wanna see you become an icicle because of me, all right?”

She considered telling him she’d do it after cleaning up his hands and face, but then another, stronger shiver wracked her body. So she nodded, turning to the fireplace.

_This is ok, actually. I’ll be able to lose the coat, and ok, I haven’t brought any nice clothes and dammit, my bag is in the car, but at least I’ll be less of a shapeless ball of fabric, and…_

And God, she was really thinking about being pretty for Spike. The thought was alien and familiar at the same time, but she didn’t want to think about the way she’d felt back during their tryst; this was now, and what she wanted now was more of his awed eyes, and more of his hands on hers, on all of her.

Sure, she would’ve preferred this to have happened when she wasn’t a shabby, exhausted nervous wreck. But when had Spike ever made things nice and easy? Ultimately, it didn’t matter that she should probably sleep for a week before even attempting to seduce anyone. Right now, she knew exactly what she wanted. She just had to find a way to let him know, without being the one to make the first real move. Because dammit, the vampire had to do _something_ here.

*

Spike watched Buffy bring the fire to life, wondering how much of a fool he looked, unable to keep from staring. She didn’t seem to mind, and he didn’t know what that meant for him, for them.

 _God, just thinking of an ‘us’_ …

He swallowed, trying to stop his insides from twisting. Not an easy task when Buffy was taking off her coat, and undoing her ponytail, and threading her fingers through her hair in a way that made his hands tingle.

She was gorgeous, even dressed up like some sort of secret agent in black fatigues. Maybe even more, looking like the Slayer ready to kill nasties. Saving his ass from them.

Ok, that was a bit less encouraging, but he tried to look on the bright side: Buffy was consciously taking care of him, being sweet and attentive and _there_ , after two months of conversations and lovely-smelling letters, and—and she was kneeling between his legs again, the blaze behind her making her look like a fiery, wide-eyed angel.

“Let me take care of that.”

Her voice was soft as she gently touched his scraped and bloody hands. He nodded, wondering whether he’d ever been so happy to be wounded and in need of a patch-up. Drusilla had taken care of him, back then, but this… this felt all new.

Buffy carefully wiped his skin of blood and dirt, her fingers still trembling. Why had she taken the coat off, if she was still cold? Not that he’d complain; the more he could see of her, the happier he was.

After all the time they’d spent talking on the phone, Spike found that he didn’t mind the silence. It felt comfortable and comforting to watch as she worked, dabbing softly until she deemed him clean enough, and then applying Band-Aids to his scraped skin. When she looked up, touching his face lightly, he remembered he’d taken a hit to the head too. She started the whole process again, and this time, she had to see he was staring. But he couldn’t stop.

Finally, she seemed to be done; still, her fingers lingered on his skin, caressing him for a moment, and his eyes closed as he took in a deep breath.

Smoke, and fresh air, and Buffy Summers.

When he opened his eyes, she was looking at him like she _cared_. His chest felt a little too tight—and when she placed her hot palm on his bare knee, his groin as well.

“Better?”

“Perfect,” he croaked. She didn’t seem to mind though, just smiled and looked down and… was she blushing? Christ, he hoped the blanket was bunched up enough to cover things.

“Ok,” she said.

She stayed like that for a few seconds, long enough for Spike to wonder whether he’d hit his head hard enough that this was all a dream. But no, not even his brain could recreate the scent of her, the searing warmth of her skin on his.

“All right,” she said finally, looking up at him again, her eyes determined. “You’re going to sit here in front of the fire to warm up. And I’m going to make myself some dinner. And then you’re going to drink something to get better.”

She pressed her hot hand to his chest until he leaned back, and then all he could do was blink back at her. He kept blinking when she rose, all Slayer strength and grace, and moved past the armchair, presumably to the little corner kitchen.

He suddenly wondered what kind of cabin held blood. “What is this place?”

“It belongs to a couple, but when those demons decided to move here they fled and contacted us. I came to get rid of the monsters.”

He frowned. “What are they, if they keep blood in the holiday house?” Buffy didn’t answer, and he twisted around to look at her, ignoring the pain in his abdomen. “Pet?”

“Don’t stress the wound, Spike,” she said as she moved around to gather a pan, a box of eggs, and a carton of milk from the fridge.

“Love?” he asked, getting a strange feeling. “What are they?”

“I said not to stress the wound, Spike,” she repeated, her commanding tone sending a decidedly inappropriate tingle down his spine.

He ignored it, glaring at her, and she finally sighed. 

“They’re humans.”

“Then why would they have blood here?”

A beat. Then Buffy looked down for a moment, before sending him a fierce glance, her cheeks rosy.

_Oh._

“You can’t go hunting for animals like that, especially with a storm. And you’re right, we don’t know how long we’re gonna be stuck here. You’re not gonna improve without blood, and since I have plenty of it—”

“No you don’t—”

“—I’m gonna help you out, and that’s it.”

“Buffy, that’s not it at all!”

Her eyes flashed in anger, and Spike wished his dick would stop taking that as a clue to get harder. When he tried to get up from the chair, though, he didn’t go far. Besides the sudden realisation he was only wearing a blanket, Buffy was already at his side, pushing his shoulders back into the chair.

“Spike, I haven’t had the easiest week or two, ok? So just do as I tell you.”

“Bloody no I won’t,” he grunted, trying to ignore the pain in his leg and abdomen and ribs. “Not gonna eat you like some kind of nasty, Buffy. ’M over being that kind of monster, I thought you knew that.”

Her eyes flared again, this time with hurt and anger. “This isn’t about being a monster. This is about—”

“ _Eating_ you? What’s not monstrous about that?”

“This is about you letting me help you. About me wanting to do something for you, because I trust you, and I want you to be better. Or is that so unbelievable?” she asked, and suddenly her voice was almost cracking. “Is it so hard to believe that I’m capable of that? That I mean what I say?”

Spike was stunned silent. Something told him this wasn’t about the blood, not really; but when hadn't he believed her? He did nothing but bloody believe her… except that… Christ, was it possible she was thinking about the Hellmouth? When he’d revealed her “I love you” for what it had been, instead of just humouring her last words to a dying man?

His heart hurt at the thought, but he tried to ignore it. Maybe it had nothing to do with that at all. Maybe it was whatever had ruined her week; maybe he was just reaching, hoping that he was more important to her than he really was. 

Either way, she had a point: helping him was her choice, and robbing her of it would be far too close to the way she’d stopped him from trying to help her back in their fucked-up whatever-it-was in Sunnydale, both with money and his attentions as a lover. That had felt mortifying, no matter how low he’d sunk; that refusal on her part to be vulnerable enough to say, “Yes, I could use your help, thank you”. Was that what he was trying to do here?

He swallowed hard, breaking their staring contest to look down at his hands. They were trembling a bit, he noticed distantly; it wasn’t like he expected to be unable to control himself, or for her not to kick him to the other side of the cabin if he couldn’t.

He took a deep breath and looked back at her. Her expression had shuttered, eyes hard and distant, and he realised she expected him to refuse. 

“One condition,” he said. Buffy blinked at him in surprise, and nodded slowly. “I let you help with this, and you let me help with whatever’s made you so stressed these days. You’re… you look tense, and talking might help.” He tried to keep down his insecurities and went on. “And maybe it won’t change a thing, but at least you’ll have shared a burden.”

When she looked more nervous, as if he’d just asked for an unthinkable sacrifice, he knew he’d made the right choice. Buffy had done a lot of growing, but she still had a long way to go when it came to letting others in to see and help her with her struggles.

So, when she slowly nodded, he couldn’t help the delighted tingle in his chest.

“Ok,” she said, her voice suddenly small. “We can take care of each other,” she added in one breath, before fleeing back to the kitchen.

He was left staring at the place she’d been standing, trying to convince himself those words didn’t _have_ to mean anything romantic. She could just be looking for a closer friendship.

_Yeah, because any friend would kneel between your legs to patch you up._

He tried to ignore the blood rushing to his groin, concentrating on the sounds behind him instead. “So, what’s been bothering you, pet?”

The sounds stopped for a second, then started up again.

“Well…” More silence, until she sighed. “Dawn is being a brat.”

“Thought the girl was growing up nicely, taking up after big sis.”

Buffy snorted. “If you mean becoming stupidly bossy and thinking she knows better than her elders, sure.”

“Sounds about right to me.”

Feeling her glare, he grinned and craned his neck to send her a glance. 

“Very funny.”

“Deadly serious here, pet.”

“I’ll give you something deadly,” she muttered, making him chuckle. “Anyway, it’s exhausting,” she continued, sniffing in that I’m-going-to-ignore-you-because-I’m-better-than-you tone he knew so well. “I thought we could just get to a nice sisterly bond, but no, we’ve gotta fight and argue and go behind the other’s back to invite vamps from across the ocean—”

“Love—”

“And in all that,” she continued, “I keep thinking about it and thinking about it and all the thinky thoughts amount to absolutely nothing but stress and getting beaten by one of my girls, in front of everyone!”

He winced when he heard a clang. Ignoring the lance of pain in his abdomen, he twisted until he could see her. She was furiously mixing something in a pan, making him wonder whether she’d destroy the kitchen before too long.

“Everyone has days off, pet,” he said calmly. She grunted. “And I don’t think anyone will consider you any less than the best slayer out there if you lost one single fight.”

“You would say that,” she said, voice strained. “But you’re not there, seeing me flounder helplessly in the attempt to lead an army of hormonal teenagers with sudden superpowers.” Her motions became rhythmic, a _tap-tap-tap_ against the pan, increasingly louder as she went on. “And what if they don’t trust my authority anymore? And what if I make a mistake and get someone killed? And what if—”

“Love,” he interrupted, making her turn and stare. “Love, you’re going to break the pan if you keep that up.”

She stared for a few more seconds, before shaking her head and letting out a nervous little chuckle. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “Guess I am a bit overstressed.”

She finally turned the stove off and put her scrambled eggs in a plate along with some bread and cheese. Then she sighed, took the plate and a tall glass of water, and walked over, looking nervous.

“Is it ok if I…?” she asked, gesturing to the right arm of his chair.

He nodded, feeling speechless as she sat down right next to him. She bent to put the glass on the floor then started eating, looking dejected.

It took him a few seconds of internal battle, but he finally managed to touch her knee, trying to share some comfort. She gave him a small smile.

“I’m being a bit of a downer, sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” he said quickly, squeezing it. “Taking care of each other, yeah?” The words almost burned, they were so alien. When she smiled a bit more, his heart wanted to move in his chest.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. Then she placed her plate down on her leg and moved her hand closer, her pinky grazing his thumb. And then she kept eating, as if she hadn’t just sent his insides into a tumble.

Christ, what was she doing to him?

“What about your Scooby lot?” he managed, cursing his hoarse voice. She looked at him again, eyes wide and bright in the firelight. “They helping you shoulder it all, or giving you more grief?”

She stayed silent for a bit more, chewing and then swallowing. “They’re… well, busy. I told you they’re all around, helping get more newbie slayers and witches to join us.”

Spike nodded, thinking of all the stories she’d told him during their conversations. “But you haven’t told me whether you’ve stayed close.” Spike fought to keep his eyes focused on her face when her pinky shifted across his thumb. 

“We try. Have phone calls, tell each other how we’re doing… but it’s not the same.”

Her fingers shifted again, making him wonder whether his heart would start beating soon. “Yeah,” he said, voice raspy. “Know how that feels.”

“Plus,” Buffy continued, looking down at her food until her hair fell to cover part of her face. “There’s this guy who insists on staying on the other side of the ocean, and Christmas is coming, and I don’t even know whether he wants a present from me, since he’s been keeping his distance…”

Spike’s breath caught for a second. Then he held her hand, softly stroking the back of it with his thumb, shocked at the way it trembled slightly. “I’m sorry if I’ve added to your stress, love.”

Buffy shrugged, swallowing her last bite before she dragged the fork in idle circles on the empty plate. “The calls were nice,” she said. “I liked the conversation. Kept my mind off things.”

“And the letters?” he asked, keeping up his slow caress.

She gave a breathy sigh then, laying the fork down. Then she looked at him with soft, soft eyes. “I loved the letters.”

He didn’t stop stroking her, didn’t stop looking in her eyes, didn’t stop breathing in her scent. “I loved them too.” But then he broke their gaze; he didn’t know whether he could resist from kissing her senseless if they kept this up. 

“Do you think we’ll keep needing them?” Buffy asked, her voice tentative. “Or are you considering staying?”

When he looked up, she was glancing at his bag, left at the cabin’s entrance. 

He took a big breath, trying to steady the flipping in his belly. “Dawn told me I’d be welcome for the holidays—”

“While she’s still gonna hear it for going behind my back, she’s right on that front.” 

He grinned, delighted. “Thank you, love. And well, I thought that maybe…” He broke off for a second, wondering how much of a sap she’d think him if… Then he shrugged, because really, she’d seen so much worse from him. “Thought I could still surprise you with a handwritten message if I wanted to, yeah? Not like it has to stop just ’cause we’re on the same continent.”

He did his best to hide his nerves, because he’d been thinking about leaving her a handwritten note with a _poem_ , but that felt like too much of a confession.

Still, when she squeezed his fingers, he looked up to see her smiling sweetly. “I would definitely love that, too.” After a moment she continued, her smile bashful. “Although I don’t know whether you should wish for more of mine.”

“I told you, I loved them.”

“Yeah, but yours are so much prettier. You write surprisingly well for someone who says he was bad even as a human,” she added, her skepticism clear.

Christ, he was lucky he couldn’t blush.

But then… what if he tried being honest? Buffy had just done her best to open up; maybe it was worth the try… 

He took another deep breath. “I wasn’t entirely honest with you, back then.” 

“Really,” she drawled.

He snorted and shook his head. “Yeah, thought I’d sound like a right pillock if I told you I used to be a fop and a gentleman, more interested in poetry and taking care of my mother than anything remotely less-than-pathetic.”

To her credit, Buffy only blinked once. Then she smirked a bit; his heart almost fell down to his stomach at the idea of her ridicule, but she squeezed his hand. “Because describing yourself as a violent murderer and Slayer-killer made me all with the fuzzy feelings, of course.”

Spike barked out a relieved laugh. “Never said I was the brightest vamp out there.”

Her smile widened, turning sweet. Then she bent to lay her plate on the floor, shifting until she could look at him better. She took his hand in both of hers, tracing his fingers. “And I think poetry’s interesting,” she said quietly.

Spike just swallowed, trying to dislodge the knot in his throat. “Yeah?”

She nodded, still looking down, her smile turning wistful. “Yeah. I liked it when I went to college. And I only wish I could take care of my mother again…”

His dead heart constricted in his chest. He wanted to pull her close, tell her everything would be all right; but he just sighed and placed his other hand over hers, stroking them softly.

“You’ve proven to us all there’s at least one heaven out there, yeah? So I’m sure she's up on some cloud, being proud of you and the little Bit.”

Buffy stayed silent for a while, before finally turning a small smile his way, her eyes clear from grief. “Thanks for telling me about that, Spike. I really like discovering new things about you.”

Spike did his best not to break her gaze, ignoring the urge to get up and run away. “You know I feel the same, pet.”

Buffy raised her brows at that. “You sure there’s anything left to discover? Didn’t you know with perfect clarity who I am?”

Spike huffed out a little laugh. “Didn’t mean I know _everything_ about you… just about the kind of woman you are.” _The kind of woman I’d want beside me for the rest of forever._ “Still plenty of things about you I don’t know, and would love to discover.”

Buffy’s smile brightened, and God, she looked so happy. “Well, I think I can help with that.” Then her expression turned determined. “But don’t think you’re getting away with it, Mister I’ll Distract You With My Lovely Past. You’re going to take some blood and take it now.”

He blinked, trying not to stay stuck on the word ‘lovely’.

Then she was shifting her hair to drape it over her right shoulder and leaving the left side of her neck free. It was paler than it had been back in Sunnydale but still tanner than a Brit’s. It smelled of her, and it was the most enticing temptation he’d ever seen.

“I’m serious, Spike,” she said, looking at him askance. “I’m not letting you go to sleep until you’ve taken some blood.”

He took a shuddering breath as he let his eyes slide down. “Buffy…”

“Taking care of each other, Spike.”

Her words were firm, but he could see the slightest tremble in her shoulders. He sighed, trying to tell himself this was ok; it was an offer, and… and God, he wanted it, wanted it so much he didn’t know how his fangs weren’t already under her skin.

He let the demon out, leaning towards her slowly. When he braved a glance at her face he saw a flicker of anticipation in her eyes, and he had to wonder how the hell they’d gotten here.

But then his lips were touching her skin and he closed his eyes, inhaling her scent, ears almost roaring with the faint sound of her racing heartbeat. He kissed up and down her marked skin, wondering whether he could cover all traces of the other tossers who had put their mouths on her, wondering whether she’d let him.

She let out a shuddering breath when he placed his fangs on her. His tongue flicked out to taste her and Christ, he couldn’t take it anymore. He let out a groan and a growl as he sank his fangs in, his left hand going to grip her arm as he sucked. 

_Fuck_ , she was ambrosia, the best fucking taste he’d ever experienced, going straight to his now-straining cock, making him suck harder. She moaned under him, gripping his neck with her left hand, and he sucked more, and she was so fucking good, and his, she was all his—

The thought finally pierced through the fog of lust and hunger and Spike jerked back, terrified and disgusted. She whimpered a bit, and he realised dully that he’d probably hurt her. Buffy wasn’t _his_. Buffy didn’t belong to _anyone_ , let alone to someone who’d hurt her and was now treating her as sodding _food_ —

He scrambled off the chair, grimacing when she almost fell down in a heap as he tore away, stepping backwards and holding the blanket to his aching groin. “I can’t—I’m not—”

“Spike!” she started, but he shook his head and looked away. “Spike, listen to me. Please.”

Spike squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

He let out a breath, gathered his strength, and finally, after jerkily securing the blanket around his hips, glanced at Buffy. Who looked confused, and hurt. 

“I didn’t… I don’t…” He shook his head, but she wasn’t staring at him like he was a monster. Just like he’d rejected her, which was bloody bonkers. “You’re not food.”

Buffy let out a long breath and came over. When she tentatively placed her hand on his arm, looking like she expected him to refuse her touch, his heart broke a little.

“I know I’m not. But you know what I am, Spike? Someone who cares about you and hates seeing you suffer.”

Spike’s gaze moved down, hoping she couldn’t see the tears filling his eyes.

“And I know you care about me and don’t like seeing me suffer—”

“One way of putting it,” he murmured weakly, but she squeezed his arm and he shut up.

“So,” she continued, “can we just agree that taking care of each other is _fine_ and not something we need to worry about?”

Spike blinked, barely managing to clear the tears away. When he looked up, Buffy’s eyes were soft and sweet. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said simply.

Her smile was slow and wide. “Thank _you_ for letting me. And besides,” she added, “I have plenty of blood. A couple sips are totally of the ok.”

Spike had to struggle not to hug her then. He took her hand from his arm and squeezed it instead.

“So,” she said, stepping towards the bed. “What do you say about maybe talking a bit more and then sleeping? I know it’s early for you vamps but I’ve been up for a while, and with the…” _blood loss_ , Spike mentally finished for her, “fighting and cold and all, I need my beauty rest.”

He refrained from saying that she was gorgeous as she was. “Do you want me to take the chair?”

Buffy actually burst laughing at that. “I think the bed is big enough for two adults, don’t you?”

He just nodded mutely.

And that was how Spike came to wonder whether he’d accidentally entered an alternate universe, because soon they were getting into the bed, him wearing clean jeans and a T-shirt and Buffy wearing his sole pair of sweats and a fluffy jumper belonging to the cabin’s owners. She looked absolutely irresistible, half-clothed in his stuff, and he had to force himself to stay on his side of the bed instead of rolling over into her arms.

But then she scooted to the centre of it and looked at him, firelight flickering in her wide eyes. “Do you think we could… you know… like the last time?”

Spike felt like a complete pillock, with all the silent blinking he kept doing.

She fidgeted a bit, looking down at the sheet. “Like in Sunnydale…” she let out a breath and then looked in his eyes. “Could you hold me? And if you want to, you could take a book and read something, or maybe we could talk some more, or I don’t know—I mean, if you want to—”

Spike took her hand in his, squeezing it gently, and she stopped talking with a grateful smile. “You really fancy hearing me read?” he asked, rolling on his good side to face her better, only grimacing a bit when his wound and ribs complained.

She shrugged, interlacing their fingers together and sending a spark of pleasure all up his arm. “It depends on the book, I guess. Who knows, maybe the cabin couple is into bodice-ripper romances, that could be fun,” she said with a mischievous little smirk.

He laughed, something very close to joy filling his chest. “I’ll see what I can find, yeah?”

“You shouldn’t stress the wounds, I can—”

“Hush,” he said, unable to resist kissing her knuckles. “We both know I’m the one who knows more about books here.” When her eyes flared in indignation, he grinned and kissed her knuckles again. “Besides, your blood’s the stuff of dreams and it’s already doing its work. No reason to fret, love.”

Buffy’s eyes looked more glassy than convinced, but she squeezed his hand once then let him go. 

He rolled off the bed, ignoring his various pains, and went to peruse the shelves around the fireplace. Truth be told, he didn’t think his cock could stand the idea of reading anything racy, ridiculous or not. So he ignored the romances until his eye fell on a book he’d wanted to read for a while.

“Here we go,” he said, padding back to the bed. “Ever heard of _Neverwhere_ , pet?”

When he climbed back in the bed, she cuddled up to his uninjured side like she was meant to be in his arms.

“No. What’s it about?” Buffy said, her breath warming up his chest through his T-shirt.

“Don’t rightly know,” he murmured, forcing himself to open the pages. “Just heard good things about the author.”

She hummed against him, the vibrations spreading over his skin all-too-pleasantly. His cock was starting to get interested already, and how likely was it that she wouldn’t look down and notice?

“Does that mean this guy is a demon?”

“Hard to believe someone with such talent is a human, but…” She slapped his belly and he rumbled a laugh. “Not that I know of, pet, and it’s not like I only know demon-made stuff. Now lemme read, yeah?”

“Bossy vamp,” she muttered, but he spotted a little grin.

So he smiled down at her, tracing her cheek for a moment, before he took the book in both hands and started reading.

She was asleep before the end of the first chapter, and Spike was so thoroughly warm that he followed soon after.

*

Everything was soft, and warm, and pleasant. Everything except for a discomfort in his side and in his calf, and a sense of hunger; he cuddled closer to the warmth and softness, letting out a small rumble of displeasure.

The warmth and softness cuddled right back, and slowly, Spike recognised a low moan of pleasure. God, he loved that sound. It was exactly the noise Buffy used to make when he would lick and lick and—

Spike’s eyes shot open as he realised that the warmth and softness were Buffy; more specifically, Buffy’s breast and hair as he spooned her under the thick blankets.

He stopped breathing all of a sudden, his whole body stiffening.

Buffy went still in his arms. For a moment, it was silent. Then she spoke, voice low and husky and driving right down to his cock, which was hard and pressing against her soft backside.

“Spike?”

“God, Buffy, I’m sorry,” he finally managed to say, jerking back and starting to scramble away, tangling his limbs in the sheets—until she grasped his arms and twisted to her other side, so she was looking at him.

Looking at him and keeping him close.

“Spike,” she repeated. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

He just stared at her, brain trying to get through the morning’s fuzziness.

Buffy, the infuriating chit, rolled her eyes and scooted closer, placing one of his hands on her flank. Her very warm flank, with a sliver of uncovered skin that was close to burning his hand off. She took his other in hers and looked at him with Slayer determination.

“All right, since you’re forcing me to do this…” She took another deep breath. “Spike. Do you still like me?”

He blinked some more at her, shocked. “Buffy…”

“Please answer me,” she said, her voice turning softer.

He moved their hands to his lips so he could kiss her fingers. “You know the answer to that question, love.”

Her cheeks got a rosy tint. “Humour me.”

He looked at her for a long second, gathering the strength to say the words. “I love you, Buffy,” he finally whispered. “I told you: you’re the one.”

She exhaled a shaky breath and some tension eased from her shoulders. Had she really thought he didn’t? 

“Then,” she whispered, scooting a bit closer, her warm feet touching his under the blankets. “What’s the problem?”

He felt his whole body warm up all over again. “I didn’t know… you didn’t say…”

“Spike,” she said, this time a tad impatient. “I kneeled between your legs to patch you up and helped you undress. I asked you if we could take care of each other, and if you would stick around after Christmas.” Her eyebrows kept going up as she talked. “I told you to bite me—on the neck!—and comforted you when you freaked out about it. Then I cuddled into you,” she concluded, her body scooting further until their legs and hips were flush, her lower abdomen pressing against his still-hard cock. “And I was all happy moany when we woke up all snuggly.” Her eyes flashed as Spike’s whole body tensed. “Are you going to tell me you recognised _none_ of that as a signal?”

He blinked some more, worked his mouth open, closed it again. 

_Is this actually happening?_

She sighed, deflating a bit and pouting. “And you’re still not kissing me. Are you trying to make me pay for all the times I rejected you, or are you just waiting until I tell you I’m in love with you?”

Spike’s whole world stilled. For a wild moment, he thought she was making fun of him. But then it all clicked into place: the months of letters and phone calls, the way she'd opened up to him the previous night, the look of coy, almost concerned anticipation she had now.

The tangled knot that had been in his chest for years finally unraveled.

He let out a breathless laugh and grasped her face, _finally_ kissing her senseless. Because it was what he wanted to do, and what _she_ wanted him to do.

He kept laughing as he kissed and kissed her, and she laughed too, both of them sounding like fools.

“Buffy, my love,” he murmured against her lips.

“Oh God,” she gasped as he rolled over her, his legs tangling with hers as he pressed her against the mattress. “Spike!”

He laughed again, drunk on the sound of her happiness. “I love you,” he whispered against the skin of her jaw, her ear, her neck, the still-red mark from his fangs. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said breathlessly.

He laughed again, burying his face in her neck and holding her close. “Christ, what you do to me…” He tipped his head back and looked into her eyes, soft and sparkling with joy. “Tell me again.”

“I love you,” she obeyed, hands stroking up his chest until she could cup his face.

“Again.”

“I love you,” she breathed on another giggle, bringing him down for a kiss that set his whole body on fire. When she hummed against his lips and bucked up into him, he groaned as the pleasure and the pain. “Mmh, love you…”

He kissed her again, and again, ignoring his pain to press into her more intensely. “You hot, beautiful goddess,” he murmured against her lips, right before his side made itself heard. 

“Spike,” she panted, “your injuries—”

“Don’t care,” he muttered, kissing her again.

She whimpered, the sound making his cock twitch as he thrust down hard.

She gripped his hair, dragging him away to glare up at him. “Roll over or I’ll make you roll over.”

He moaned, trying to kiss her again, but she huffed and forced him away, to his back, her legs landing on either side of him.

As he looked up at his goddess, he had to bite his lip at the spectacle: flushed cheeks, wild hair, and a delectable little frown.

“Spike. I don’t want you to strain your injuries.”

He chuckled helplessly, his hands stroking up her strong legs, the fabric of _his_ sweats feeling almost as sweet as her skin. “So are you gonna be the one who fucks me hard instead?”

She blushed even more, the sight making him thrust up.

“Eventually,” she said in a would-be-prim tone. “But now,” she continued in full commanding-Slayer mode, “I’m going to get some water, and you’re going to drink some more of my blood, and then we’re going to make sweet love.”

Spike’s chest tightened in the most delightful way. He swallowed, trying to convince himself that his eyes weren’t watering.

“Yes, mistress.”

Buffy trembled at that. Then her expression turned softer and she bent to kiss him, deeply and softly, hands framing his face. “I love you,” she breathed when the kiss ended, touching their foreheads together.

He kept his eyes closed, his arms holding her. “I love you too.”

They stayed like that for a few interminable seconds. Then Buffy gave him another kiss, swift and passionate, and climbed off him. She kept sending him lovely little looks as she went to get a glass of water, and he never wanted to wake from this dream.

Then he noticed she was squeezing her toes together, clearly uncomfortable. He sighed, sitting up and climbing out of the bed himself.

“Spike—”

“Just gonna fix up the fire, yeah?” he said, going to kneel in front of the fireplace. “Why don’t you use the toilet in the meantime?”

Her embarrassment turned into clear affection. He looked back at the fire, feeling his dead heart swell.

A handful of minutes later, Buffy was walking back to the bed, looking at him lying there like she could see nothing else. She climbed on it slowly, and he noticed that she must’ve brushed her teeth and her hair.

When she took off her clothes, her blush spreading from her cheeks to her chest, she was the most glorious sight he’d ever laid eyes on.

“You’re wearing entirely too much,” she said, crawling to him. 

His heart tried to jump in his throat. “Buffy…”

“Let me,” she murmured, slipping her hot hands under his T-shirt. She dragged it upwards, slowly, and a choked sound left him when her lips touched his belly, his chest, first on bandages and then on skin.

“God, Buffy.”

She smiled as she finally took off the stupid shirt, and then he cupped her face and kissed her, because he missed her too much already. She responded with equal fervour, her perfect fingers stroking the skin right above his waistband, making his cock twitch madly against the unforgiving zipper. 

“Let me,” she repeated then, kissing him once more before she leaned back,her eyes bright and excited as she started unfastening his jeans. And then she was dragging them down his legs, eyes fixed on his hard cock, and was kissing his feet, his shins, knees, thighs… “Spike,” she breathed, looking up at him as she took his cock in her hand and touched her lips to it.

He moaned when she dragged her open mouth down to its base, tongue pressing against his skin, hot like a furnace. She melted on his leg, straddling it, and his eyes rolled back as she suckled at it like a bloody lollipop, one hand still holding his dick to her mouth while the other spread his free leg open.

He opened his eyes again, because he couldn’t miss the spectacle, and inhaled hard when he met her scorching gaze. 

She grinned against his flesh and sucked hard enough to make him wonder about bruises. Then she let go, only to drag her lips and tongue and teeth up and up and—oh God, _yes_.

“Fuck, pet,” he groaned when she licked at the head, broad swipes and then the tip snuggling in his crown—“Fuckshit _fuck_ ,” he grunted when she bit at his foreskin, not too lightly, making him thrust up.

Her grin only widened as she clawed at his spread-open thigh, nails digging lightly on his dick’s skin too, pain and pleasure in a wicked blond package. “Stay still.”

“Love, Christ…”

“You’re the one who called me mistress,” she murmured, eyes never leaving his as she opened her mouth and slid his shaft inside her. “Mmmh…”

He let out a choking moan as she hummed around him, her nails scraping him gently and making him see stars. She kept going, until he could feel the hot pressure of her throat, and then she kept going some more, and oh fuck, he couldn’t be this close already—

“Mmmh,” she hummed again, and then she came back up, her teeth leaving little lines of fire on his skin.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, forcing himself to stay still instead of thrusting up.

“Mmh, good,” she murmured, lips touching his tip, before sucking it hard enough that he felt close to sobbing.

“Love you,” he muttered instead, his hands finally releasing their deathgrip on the sheets to thread through her hair, moving it in a messy bunch at the nape of her neck. “I love you, I love you…” 

She managed to smile around him somehow, and now he could see her better, her flushed cheeks and her swollen lips wrapped around him, and the lust in her eyes…

“Ride me, baby,” he whispered, stroking her face. “Ride my leg. Wanna see you come with your mouth full of my cock. Wanna see how hot driving me bonkers makes you.”

She moaned around him again, eyes fluttering as she ground against his leg, drenching him even more as she sucked at him hard.

Then she let him slip out and he sighed, already missing her wet heat, only to groan when she started nibbling down his shaft.

“I’m the one giving the orders,” she said, her bite getting rougher when she reached his base, her face pressing against his coarse hair. 

“W-what do you want, mistress?” he barely managed to say, shuddering when she nuzzled him, licking his balls as if they were her favourite ice cream.

She flashed him a grin. “I want you to see how hot it makes me to drive you bonkers.” And then her hand was pumping him hard, and her mouth was closing around half of his sack, and her cunt was grinding harder, and Spike barely managed not to come all over himself on the spot.

He reined it in instead, panting helplessly as she sucked and sucked at him, grinning as she nibbled up his dick again to take him inside and suck even harder. Her head bobbed up and down, her teeth dragging on every upstroke, her hands keeping him still and fondling his sack and base—and her eyes never left his, mischievous and loving at the same time, the sexiest green he’d ever seen.

She brought him right to the edge and, when he felt like he was one pant away from coming, her hand clamped around his base and she scraped her teeth harder than ever on the upstroke. “Not yet,” she said, his empress, and he whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut.

Chuckling, she gave him a few more delicate licks, her fingers still tight around him. Realising how tight he was gripping her hair, he let his fingers slacken as his eyes flickered back open: her gaze was the sultriest, most brilliant thing he’d ever seen. She dragged herself along his body, her nipples and wet cunt tracing lines of fire on his skin, until her hot breath was puffing against his open mouth.

“Wanna see how hot you’ve gotten me?” she asked, voice low and husky.

His cock twitched in her hand as he nodded frantically, crashing her to his mouth in a sloppy kiss that tasted of him and her and _God_ , had he ever loved her more than this?

Buffy laughed against his lips and then leaned back, her eyes beaming with lust and joy. “Watch.”

And then she dragged herself up again, taking care not to hurt his wounded side. After one last merciless squeeze of his cock, she gripped his hair. He fondled her breasts as her pussy left a trail of heat and wetness up his belly, his chest, his clavicle—

“Fuck yeah,” he murmured as she slid forwards, his hands spreading her thighs even more. “Sit on my face, kitten.”

She quivered above him, fingers gripping his hair hard enough to send shudders of pain all down his body, her eyes never leaving his. “Watch what you do to me, Spike,” she whispered, her voice rough and tender.

He nodded again, his gaze zeroing in on her glorious cunt, and she was right, he could see: she was swollen, and glistening, and visibly begging for his tongue. He dove right in, hands sliding until his thumbs could part her folds, making it easier for his tongue to trace every contour, until she was whimpering in pleasure above him. She clutched his hair harder and he took his time, savouring every inch, sucking and nibbling and licking, his nose against her clit as his tongue and lips explored everything else.

Her moans turned urgent when he circled her entrance and sucked at it, and she thrust against him. “Harder,” she panted, making him wish he could hump the bloody bed.

He concentrated on giving her more instead, teeth dragging around her opening as his tongue speared her. She shivered hard as her thighs clamped tighter around him, her hand pressing him impossibly close. He chuckled and twisted his face, nose hard on her clit, teeth scraping on her folds, tongue pummelling inside her—and she came, yelling something that sounded like his name as she spasmed above and around him. Spike growled, doing his best not to spill his load all over himself.

He didn’t stop eating her as she came down, as she tittered above him, chasing after her cunt even as she dragged her hips away. She kissed him sloppily, fingers spreading her essence on his face. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , he would _always_ do his fucking best to keep this working, to hold tight to a Buffy who loved him and was happy to be in his arms.

“You’re way too good at that,” she murmured, grinning drunkenly against his lips. And then she spread her legs around him, her hot hot cunt lips cradling his hard cock.

“You’re way too good, fullstop,” he whispered back, hands roaming her body until one was pressing on her ass, the other angling her chin so he could kiss her more deeply. “I love you, Buffy.”

Her smile was radiant. “I love you too.” Then she kissed him again, body swaying into his, her sopping pussy lips dragging against his hard, quivering cock. “Spike, make love to me.”

Spike managed to contain a sob, just barely. He hugged her close, kissing and kissing her, mouthing her jaw when she moved away to breathe, kissing down her neck as his hands stroked down her back, one fondling her perfect ass before he slipped it between her cheeks. “Thought that was what we were doing,” he breathed, stroking the sensitive skin behind her plump lips.

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathed. “Right—I— _ooh_ …”

He chuckled, nuzzling down her chest until she leaned back enough for him to lick and nibble at her breast. “Know what you meant… mmh… just saying, every time I touch you I feel like making love to you.”

“Spike,” she moaned as his fingers slid to tease her slippery, tight entrance. “ _Yes_.”

“Glad we agree,” he said around her nipple. Then he opened his mouth to get as much as he could inside, one hand squeezing her other breast as the other slipped just two knuckles inside her.

“Spike, more…”

“Let’s go slow, kitten,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to her sternum for a second. “Let me savour you, my love.”

“ _Ah_ … yess. But slow with you,” she panted, kissing his head, “inside.”

He groaned, dragging his wet hand away so he could slip it between their bodies. Her disappointed moan turned pleased when he cupped her pussy, and then he was circling her clit in firm, slow strokes.

“Inside,” she repeated in a hiss, one hand clutching his hair hard. “ _Spike_.”

“Yeah,” he rasped, his cock leaking desperately against her skin as she thrust and thrust. “Fuck, pet.”

“I want you,” she murmured, kissing his ear, his temple, down his cheek to his lips. “Please, Spike, I want you.”

“Yours, I’m yours,” he said with a frantic nod before she kissed him again. He left her clit after one last hard stroke, fisting his cock. “Want you tight and hot around me, kitten,” he said against her lips. “Take me, take me inside… yesyesyesss, _God_ , so fucking tight, my love, my Slayer…”

Pleasure filled him as she spasmed around him, her moans filling his ears, her scent his nostrils.

“ _Spike_ ,” she mewled against his cheek, her pants hot and wet. 

Then she started moving, thrusting up and down, clamping every time she had him fully inside her, and he moaned with her, the sound thrilling and hot.

“So tight… _nng_ , yes, squeeze me tight, kitten—”

“Fuck,” she exhaled, letting out a laugh when he started circling her clit again. “Yes, yes, yes!”

He drove up into her, his side starting to hurt with the motion, but the pain only made everything hotter. She panted and mewled above him, bearing down harder and harder even as her lips never left his cheeks, his jaw, his lips, her hands clenching his hair and his chest, right over his heart.

She clawed at his skin as he squeezed her nipple. “Spike!”

“My hot, tight goddess… _nnh_!”

“Oh God oh God… Spike,” she whined, “I want… I need…”

“Tell me, baby,” he begged, hands becoming harsher. “What do you need?”

She snapped her eyes open, her lost look making him groan and thrust up harder. “I need your—fangs,” she whispered, the hand in his hair shifting his head towards her neck. “Bite me, please.”

Helplessly, Spike vamped out, and when her eyes flared with lust, he lost all control. His hand moved from her breast to her head and he gripped and tilted it, quivering when she keened in pleasure—and then his fangs were slicing through her skin, blood invading his mouth and making his body explode in pleasure.

Her moan turned to a yell as she spasmed around him, coming undone in seconds, and her scent and taste and sounds drove him over the edge too. He came and came, thrusting up into her wet, tight heat.

It lasted too long and too little, his body relaxing earlier than he’d have liked, even though he could feel her power coursing through him. She kept making little delighted mewls as he let her flesh go, only to lick at it, trying to help close the wound between whispered praises.

“My love… hot, gorgeous… love you so much…”

“I love you, Spike,” she whispered, melting above him once more.

The wound in his side pulsed even as her blood started healing it, making him feel almost dizzy with pained pleasure.

“Never… never been happier…”

Buffy hummed above him, pressing her cheek to his head. “You make me so happy too, Spike.”

He didn’t manage to keep the sob in this time, squeezing his wet eyes shut and pressing his forehead to her skin.

She shifted away from his wound, both of them sighing as he slipped out of her. And then she was sliding to his uninjured side, legs tangling with his as she nuzzled her face down his temple to kiss his lips softly.

Her breath was hot and short, her warm fingers were stroking his chest, and the softness of her breasts made his nipples tighten, sending little jolts of pleasure down to his still semi-hard dick.

“You’re a dream,” he murmured, stroking her back.

She smiled against his lips, kissed him again, and then sighed deeply as she settled her head on his shoulder. “My dreams of you weren’t as good as this, actually.”

That startled a chuckle out of him, but she didn’t seem to be lying; she just looked satisfied. Which didn’t bode well for his Slayer-blood-hardened cock, but he wanted to bask a bitmore anyway.

Then Buffy talked, voice low and uncertain. “Will… will you stay with me here, Spike? I mean, not the cabin—that’s kinda obvious, with the snowy barricade—but in Scotland… will you stay?”

He stared down at the top of her head, the only thing he could see of her. Then he cupped her chin and tilted her face up. She was sporting the cutest vulnerable look, and he didn’t know if he’d ever loved her more. 

“I’ll stay forever, Buffy. Or at least until you want me to.”

Joy shone in her eyes and she stroked his jaw, shifting up to press her forehead to his. “Forever sounds good.”

Chuckling, he held her closer. Her blood coursing through his veins made him want to roll her over and go back to the ravishing, but he didn’t want to rush things; he wanted to enjoy this, to relish her warm, welcoming arms around him.

They had all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompts I was given were: Comfort, Injured Spike, Accidental Claim--2 out of 3 ain't bad, right?
> 
> Feel free to let me know whatever you think, good or bad, I love any and all feedback. Thanks for reading and remember to keep your sugar levels down for a while after this. ;)


End file.
